


Something With a T

by Futureworldruler



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Gets Therapy, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Derek Lives with the Stilinskis, Friendship, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Derek, POV Stiles, Pack Dynamics, People get therapy, Slow Build, Stiles has problems, mostly minor problems, therapy for everyone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-03 05:53:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13334844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Futureworldruler/pseuds/Futureworldruler
Summary: It started when Derek showed up at his house with a car full of plants.Or Derek gets help, moves in with the Stilinskis, and slowly builds a new life for himself





	1. The First Step is Always the Hardest

**Author's Note:**

> Wow this story has been a long work in progress! Hope you guys enjoy, I will post the second chapter soon. I'll continue to tag more things as I post :)

It started when Derek showed up to his house with a car full of plants. 

“Hey,” he said. 

“Hey,” Stiles squinted at him in his underwear and not much else. Derek looked unperturbed. 

“I’m going to use your garden,” he said, nodding his head like this was a perfectly acceptable statement to make to a man standing in front of his house in his drawers at nine in the morning. 

“O...kay? What-” But as soon as Stiles had spoken, he turned away and started back to his car. “Hey wait!” 

Derek turned back around. “Yes?” 

“I…” Stiles paused, tried to collect his thoughts. “Am confused.” 

Derek stared at him like he was the weird one. “Okay?”

Stiles tried again. “I am confused why you need to use my garden.” 

“To plant,” Derek said slowly.

“Plant what?” 

Now Derek squinted at him. “Plants.” 

It was at this point that Stiles gave up and decided to just go back to bed. “Please don’t be too loud,” he said, but Derek had already stopped listening. 

 

He was gone when Stiles woke up again, and so he put it down as a really weird, realistic dream until he went outside and saw the frankly obscene amount of plants in the front porch flower beds. They considered each other for awhile. Then Stiles, deciding life was too short to worry about werewolves, monsters, and Derek Hale, went back inside. When his dad asked about it, he waved his hand and said, 

“It’s an experiment.” 

“For what?” His dad wrinkled his nose. “To see if you’re good at gardening?” 

 

A week later, his dad trudged through the door, took off his boots, and declared, 

“Well, son, you suck at gardening.” 

Stiles craned his neck out the kitchen window. The plants were wilting, drooping towards the ground like gravity was too much for them. He texted Derek  _ your plants are dead _ . He didn’t respond. 

Three days after, Stiles came back from school to him staring mournfully at his most recent failure. Stiles didn’t even think his face could do mournful; he thought it was stuck between incessant rage and standoffishness. 

“They’re dead,” he said when Stiles walked up to him. At this point, they’d started shriveling, curling into themselves like sad, little children. 

“Yes?” Stiles said. “You didn’t water them.” Derek turned to him like,  _ you’re supposed to do that _ ? Stiles rolled his eyes, clapped him on the back. “You have to water plants, you know.” 

“Oh,” Derek said. Then he left without another word. Stiles considered rolling his eyes again, but decided it wouldn’t be worth the effort. 

 

Derek showed up on yet another Saturday with another car full of plant. This time, Stiles, deciding this was probably the limit, ran out of his house in his underpants, seething. 

“What are you doing, Derek?” He said. 

Derek shrugged, obviously thinking that was enough of a response. 

“You can’t do this anymore. How the fuck am I going to explain to my dad that an ex-murderer is gardening in front of my house?” 

Derek said, “Is your dad home?”

“No but-” Stiles gave a huff, crossed his arms. “That’s not the point. The point is that he getting suspicious, and, besides, you can’t just go around digging up a man’s garden without telling him first.” 

“Fine,” Derek said, sticking out his jaw. There was a moment of silence before he jerked his thumb towards his car and said, “I do have these plants already set up…”

Stiles threw his hands in the air. “Whatever. Just. Don’t do this again.” 

 

Then Derek rolled into his window late one night when Stiles was working on Chemistry problems. In a perfectly rational response, Stiles jumped out of his chair and shrieked. Derek stared at him, expressionless. 

“Jesus motherfucking Christ,” Stiles said. “What are you doing?” 

“I’m seeing if I can look at my plants.” 

Stiles gaped at him. “Are you serious?” 

“You told me to ask you,” Derek said defensively. 

“I didn’t mean at ten in the fucking night time! This is not when you’re supposed to water plants, Derek!” 

Derek shrugged. Stiles was getting tired of that response. 

“Is your dad home?” He asked. 

“No,” he rolled his eyes. “He’s on duty, but-”

“Great,” Derek interrupted before jumping back out of the window. Stiles mimed strangling someone. 

 

Stiles came home from school to see Derek. It was almost a familiar sight. 

He had his hands in his pockets, kicking the dirt around with the toe of his boot, and looking generally like a kid who’d missed the bus to responsibility town.

“Hey,” Stiles said, coming up behind him. Derek didn’t respond. His plants had obviously yet again bit the dust. 

“I don’t understand,” he said. “I watered them.” 

“Yeah, but you put perennials in a spot that’s facing the sun all day,” Stiles pointed out. Derek turned to him like he was the new Jesus. “Some plants need shade,” he said defensively. 

“Oh.” Derek made a face he obviously didn’t know he was making. “I thought they all just needed sunlight.” 

“Some do,” Stiles acknowledged. “But not all. Others need different settings.” 

Derek squinted at him. “How do you know this?”

“It’s common sense.” Stiles could feel his shoulders rising to his ears. “Didn’t you read a book on gardening? Or ask the people at the store what to plant?” 

Derek turned back to his plants, stuck out his lower lip just enough to be obvious. 

“So that’s a no,” Stiles said. “Look, if you don’t want stuff to die, you gotta do your research. Otherwise…” He gestured to the dead flowers.

Derek just looked grumpy.

 

This time, Stiles tracked down Derek. He was predictably over at the Hale house, sitting on the charred porch like the cover of a bad teen, supernatural drama. 

“Hey,” Stiles said. Derek didn’t say anything so Stiles just walked over to where he was sitting. “Here.” 

Derek looked at him. “What is it?” 

“A book, idiot,” Stiles said, moving it up and down impatiently. “Just take it.” 

Derek took it. 

“It’s about gardening. You know, if you ever want to start again.” 

“Okay.” Derek stared at him. 

“Now you say thank you, Derek.” 

“Thank you,” he said, almost automatically, and then his face took on the expression of a grumpy grandpa yelling at those ‘damn kids’. Stiles laughed, felt his shoulders deflate a little. 

“Okay. I’m going now,” he said. He got to his car door, looked back, and gave a little wave. “Bye, Derek.”

Against all odds, Derek gave a hesitant wave back. 

 

When neither Stiles nor his dad were home, the flowerbeds were stuffed with plants. 

“Jesus, Stiles, I thought you’d given up on this,” his dad said. “You planted damn perennials out there. I thought you knew better than that.” 

Stiles just shrugged, tried not to smile. “I’d never.” 

“So why the sudden interest in gardening?” 

“I thought I needed more hobbies.” 

“Oh yeah, you need  _ more  _ of them.”

“Always looking to bolster that college application.”

 

This time, the plants stayed amongst the living. Stiles wasn’t sure when Derek was taking care of them, but he wasn’t going to push it. At this point, he had more to worry about than Derek’s increasingly weirder habits. He had Monday off from school, and, after sleeping in until twelve, he lurched out of bed, grabbed the box of cheerios, and headed over to the living room where his dad was already merging with the armchair, cup of coffee in hand.

“Morning sleeping beauty,” he smirked. Stiles grunted at him, reached for the remote. His dad grabbed it first.

“Go get me the paper.”

“What do I look like, a dog?” Stiles snorted. 

“You look like sixteen years of thankful child.” 

“That’s against child labor laws.” 

“Ungrateful kid,” his dad said, standing up. “I slave for you!” 

“And the food in my belly thanks you,” Stiles called after him, turning on the TV. He had just powered up the xbox when his dad came back. 

“Stiles?”

“What?” He said, turning around. He had a strange look on his face, sans paper. 

“Why is Derek Hale in our garden?” 

 

The three of them sat at the living room table, silent. The Stilinskis were both staring at Derek. Derek was staring at his hands in his lap.

“I thought you had school today,” he said finally. Stiles groaned, threw his arms in the air. 

“Its labor day, Derek! Labor day! And you were supposed to  _ tell me _ when you were coming by.” 

“You usually aren’t home at this hour,” Derek protested. “I didn’t think it was going to be an issue.” 

“Well, like so many other things in your life, you were wrong,” Stiles snarked. Derek didn’t answer, just clenched his hands harder. Stiles’ dad glanced between them, then said,

“Okay, what the fuck is happening?”

“Would you like to explain?” Stiles said to Derek, crossing his arms. He knew he was being mean, but he couldn’t stop himself. Derek stayed silent, so, after a moment Stiles said, “Derek was using our flower beds, for reasons unknown, to plant a garden. 

The sheriff thought about that for a second. Then he said, “Why?”

“I don’t know, ask him.” 

Both Stilinskis turned to him. After a moment, he muttered, “I don’t have anywhere else to plant them.” 

His dad leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms. A classic, ‘this is an open space and you can tell me anything’ move. “Why can’t you use your own flower beds?” 

Derek shrugged. 

“Where are you living, son?”

“I’m looking for a place,” he said quietly. “I didn’t expect to stay here long.” 

“And are you looking to stay here longer?” 

Another shrug. Derek appeared to be gritting his teeth. Stiles’ dad studied him.

“Alright, you’ll use our guest room then.” 

“What?” Stiles and Derek said at the same time. Stiles braced his hands on the table like the news was physically fighting him. Derek just looked confused. 

“If you need a place, then you can use ours.” He said. “We have plenty of room.” 

“Dad, he’s an ex-murderer.” 

“He’s already using our flowerbeds, Stiles, I think we’ve all moved past the whole murderer thing.” 

“Sir, I appreciate the offer, but-”

“No.” The sheriff put his hand out. “You’ll take the room. I don’t care if you need it for a day or a month, I won’t take any ‘buts’ for an answer.” 

“Dad,” Stiles said, his head once again firmly in his hands. 

“No buts from you either, Stiles,” he turned to him. “You opened the door to this mess, and now you’re going to deal with the consequences. Derek, you move in tonight. Go get your things.” 

 

Derek didn’t have any things so he moved in after an hour. And that, it seemed, was just the way. 

 

 


	2. Derek Tries Knitting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Sorry it took me so long to update and respond to comments. These past months have been busier than I thought they would be. That being said, I hope to have future chapters up faster! Thanks, as always, for reading :)

When Derek woke up, he did what he did every morning, which was stare at the ceiling and wonder what exactly he was doing. Usually, what stared back at him was the black and ashy ceiling of his childhood home. Now, it was cream colored. 

The bed creaked slightly when he sat up and let his feet fall to the floor. The Stilinski’s guest room surrounded him, with its simple, brown dresser, stained carpet, toothy kid Stiles staring at him from the picture frame. Today was the day he learned how to knit. 

 

First, he got dressed and went out into the kitchen where the sheriff was sitting at the table cup of coffee in hand. He looked up when Derek walked in, gave a nod of acknowledgement, then turned back to his paper. Derek nodded back then went for the cheerios in the cupboard. The first few days, he had waited for Stiles and the sheriff to leave before getting up himself and creeping around the kitchen like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Then, Stiles had burst in one morning, and caught him sitting on the bed, digging his fingernails into his palms. 

“What are you doing?” He had questioned. 

“Uh,” Derek had responded intelligently. Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Jesus Christ. Just get in here if you’re already up. None of us bite, unlike some people I know.” 

Derek felt too nervous to get Stiles back for that dig. But after the first week, they had all developed something of a routine. The sheriff got up first and started the coffee pot. Derek would come in and leave the cereal and a bowl out for Stiles. Then, Stiles would stumble down the stairs into the kitchen bleary-eyed, and come back to the table with a refill for the sheriff. Half an hour later, both took off for the station and school respectively, leaving Derek to do whatever he was going to do that day. Today it was knitting. Yesterday, it was buying the knitting supplies. The day before that was seeing Ben, who was the one who told him to pick something else off the list and give it a try before their next appointment. 

 

After the Stilinskis left, Derek cleaned up the kitchen table, and brought out his stuff. Then, he loaded up a ‘beginners knitting’ video on youtube, and was just starting to get the hang of it eight hours later when Stiles burst through the door, falling head first onto the couch. After a moment, he put the scraggly yarn pile and knitting needles back in the bag. 

“Are you okay?” he asked. A moan came from the couch cushions. 

“No.” 

Derek allowed him to elaborate, which he did not. Then he said, “What happened?” 

“Nothing.” Stiles lifted his head up, face clearly miserable. “Except that my life is horrible and it will never be fine again.” 

“Oh,” Derek said. Stiles put his head back in the couch cushions. This was usually how it went, too. Just another part of the routine. 

 

“You know, teenagers,” the sheriff had rolled his eyes once. “They got so many fucking problems their brains overload and have to reboot each day.” 

“Yes,” Derek answered uncertainty. He’d had a lot of problems as a teenager, but most of them had been self-made. Stiles, on the other hand, had a lot of problems caused by other people (Derek) which lead to situations (Derek dragged him into) that lead to even more problems. Some of Stiles problems weren’t even life-threatening. So, actually, he didn’t really know. 

Stiles was miserable the rest of the night. Dinner was quiet, with a sad Stiles, an exhausted sheriff, and very uncertain Derek. Stiles made lasagna. Maybe Derek should learn how to make lasagna. 

  
  


The next day, Derek went to a coffee shop, ordered a small latte and a danish, and tried his hand at knitting again. So far, he wasn’t very good at it. But part of this exercise was keeping with something even though he felt like giving up, so after a while he just sighed and put it back in his bag for tomorrow. Then, he went to the store and bought spaghetti and tomato sauce.

 

Stiles and the sheriff ate it tentatively. 

“Tastes great, Derek,” the sheriff said a tad too cheerful. 

“Crunchy,” Stiles said. The sheriff very obviously kicked him under the table. Derek felt his shoulders hunch, twirled spaghetti with his fork.

“How long,” the sheriff choked slightly, took a big gulp of water. “How long did you cook this for?”

Derek shrugged. “I dunno. Five minutes?” 

“You know it has instructions on the box,” Stiles said. At Derek’s look, he sighed, stomped into the kitchen. He came out holding the spaghetti box snatched from the trash, shoved it in Derek’s face. “Look, al-dente eight to nine minutes.” 

“Oh,” Derek said. 

“Research things, Derek,” Stile said, drawing out the words. He was still in a very bad mood. 

Derek’s shoulders had become the Hunchback of Notre Dame. No one asked for

seconds. Derek threw the rest in the trash. 

 

He went back to the cafe, tried to knit some more, tried to breathe evenly through his nose and not in short bursts. Frustration welled up in him like rising water. At two, he had an appointment with Ben, and he thundered up his well-worn steps with it still roiling around in his gut. 

 

“What’s going on, Derek?” Ben asked him, once they had seated in his study, elbows on his knees, palms clasped. He shrugged.

“Words, Derek.”

“I…started knitting.” 

“Oh? How’s that going?”

“Badly.”

“How come?” 

“I can’t do it.”

“Well, these things take time.” 

Derek worked not to shrug again. He knew it only made Ben exasperated, him and

everyone else. Sometimes, though, it felt like Derek just didn’t have enough words. He had a limited supply stashed away, and eventually he was just left with empty hands. 

 

Ben stared at him with his calm, calculating look. “Why did you choose knitting from the list?” 

Derek stared at a stain on the carpet, thought about his reasons. “My grandmother. She used to do it.” 

“Really? What would she knit?” 

“Hats, and things. I don’t know. Scarves, maybe, too. She gave them as Christmas gifts.” 

“That sounds nice.” 

“Laura picked it up, after, you know.” Derek took a breath. “The-fire. She liked crocheting more, though. She liked making blankets.” 

“Then why don’t you try crocheting?” 

“Because that’s not the point,” Derek said, exasperated. “The point is that I’ll just fail.” Like he always did. 

“You’ve gotten pretty good at gardening.” 

“Yeah, but I failed like a million times first. And I’m still really bad.” 

“Well, isn’t  _ that _ the point? That you tried and failed, and tried and failed, but then, with practice, you succeeded?” 

Derek was silent for a moment, staring at the carpet. 

“Stiles says I need to do more research.” 

“And Stiles is the friend you’re living with now, right?” 

“Yeah.” Derek cleared his throat. “He says I jump into things too quickly.”

“What do you think about that?” 

Derek thought he was probably right. He bit three broken teenagers, so desperate for some type of family, a resemblance to what he used to have that he almost didn’t care who it was or what would happen as long as he didn’t have to think about how his last family member was buried in a ditch, cut in half. Normal people probably didn’t do stuff like that.

“Stick with knitting for a little bit longer,” Ben said gently. “And maybe do some more research. I hear there’s a bookstore in town that has a nice selection.” 

After a moment, Derek nodded, and they moved on. 

 

Derek didn’t go to the bookstore. Instead, he went back to the cafe, stared morosely down at his latte, and tried to squelch the feeling that he should just slink back to the Hale house, live amongst the ash and bats and splintered wood where he belonged. 

_ What a fuck up _ , he thought. Laura would be ashamed. His mom would be livid. It hurt to think about them, a heavy ache inside his chest. But that’s what he deserved. 

_ Did you think you could have a happy life? You think you can have something nice? Something worth- _

 

“Excuse me, young man,” someone interrupted him. Derek looked up at the face standing in front of his chair. “Is that your mess?” The old woman pointed to his sad scrap of yarn. 

Derek nodded warily. 

“Are you a beginner knitter?” She pressed. He nodded again. 

“Well,” she harrumphed. Her breath shook her whole body, an affair that made it go up and down like a rollercoaster. “It’s a sorry state of an affair, I’ll give you that.” She sat down in the seat across from him. With one finger, she poked at it, drawing it closer to her. In swift movements, she pulled at the string until she had unwound all his hard work.

“See, the problem is you started with a shoddy base, which means the whole things gonna look like a mess because the rows after don’t have anything solid to build off of. Do you know know to start a basic knot?” 

“Uh,” he said stupidly. “No.” 

“Hrmm.” She twisted her lips. “Watch carefully now.” One after another, new stitches appeared on his needle. “Thread through the needle and then pull on the other side. See? You try.”

Gingerly, he took the knitting needles back and tried to copy her movements. 

“No, not like that,” she tched at him, taking it back. “Watch. You’re pulling from the wrong

end. Like this.” She did it again, they handed it back to him. Slowly, he did the same. 

“Ah, now you’re getting it.” She hit him lightly on the shoulder, a satisfied smile on her lips. “Aren’t you gonna thank me?” 

“Thank you,” he said uncertainty. 

“You’re welcome,” she said. “You can buy me a coffee to pay me back.”


End file.
